Ascension
by clementinelemontime
Summary: Dick finds himself lost in feelings of the present, unable to see a future for himself. Just as Slade is confined by his unacknowledged loneliness. Just as the nameless village that they find each other in is ensnared, not only by the annals of time but the forest that looms over them on the small hill. Slade/Dick
1. The Day The One-Man Parade Came To Town

It began so long ago, but not long enough for anyone to forget, in a village in the North that no longer had a name. It was a space that not many people shared but somehow still felt congested. Some older folks blamed on the constant high humidity. It was almost always cold there, never reaching above fifty degrees even in the summertime. The sun came out for a few hours a day then receded; allowing the clouds would swallow it up for the rest of the time along with its meager warmth. There was a thick ever-present fog that hovered above the town that started from dawn until mid-afternoon before dispersing a bit. It thick was enough for one to see past a mile but no more than that. A forest lay close to the village on a small hill that was visible to all as well as a short walk away. The dying trees reached well above the compact houses and stretched as far as the eye could see.

There used to be a time that the older folks talked about when living were good. It used to be a place for hunters but was no more. All the big game had gone from this place a generation ago due to overhunting in the forest. That was what they said to one another but that was the lie that kept them safe and unhappy. The old folks tell their grandchildren stories of the good times when food was plentiful, trade was booming, and of the giant old beasts that they'd hunt. No one, save the old, liked to talk about how good times used to be. There was too much to be done in the day to hear about how things would never be again. But the stories of beasts were always the children's favorite; they were everyone's favorite. In one's spare time, it had been normal to look at the forest and to wonder. Not its beginning but deep into its unilluminated eye. That was where the stories were but no new stories would come from again. There was no need to go that far anymore. There was nothing there for them to live off; if one could call existing in such a quickly perishing place 'living'. The hunters stayed on the outskirts in the area that the sun could touch and bring back small game that consisted of rabbits, turtles, and snakes. One a rare, joyous occasion a deer would wander out of the forest and a fortunate hunter would do their work with it.

No one old enough to know talks about in earnest of why they don't enter the forest. That is, when they're reasonably sober.

This in mind, all would say that it came as a terrible shock when they saw him come out of the ancient wood that day. He came in the sunset. The light at his back. It looked as if were pushing him, guiding him on. Perhaps it was keeping him from harm. The young man arrived carrying a small sad smile, a small battered black suitcase, and an even smaller but well-kept burgundy shoe box. He nice red suit was a few sizes too big for him, that was for certain. It looked as if he was struggling to walk in it. He was a pretty young thing with his thick black-brown hair tied back in a thin ribbon and his hickory skin. Even with the bruises! They didn't look fresh; the bruise of the edge of his lip and left eye were a yellow color then. Maybe there were more under his clothes. Perhaps that was the reason he had been walking so strange.

He had said hello to everyone he had passed when he arrived but no one spoke back. They were still in awe of him; coming from the forest like that to say "Hello!" with a smile like that! He must have been an omen of disaster or one of the beasts the elder folks had thought at first. He even spoke kindly to the women that worked at the brothel who stared at him with horror mixed along with wide-eyed wonder alongside all the rest of the town. It was like a big event where everyone was either in the street to stare or viewing from the windows of their homes. A one-man parade. No one spoke then. They just stared. That had been a month ago, and they all had felt so silly now that had gotten to know the young man. Slade didn't know all this for himself. He'd just been listening to the loud woman across from the bar tell her tale to a friend that was there to visit her.

"Richard? Tha's an awful big name for a place like this. Must be a rich boy!" Her friend joked. She had been away visiting her dying mother. She'd just come back and had missed all previous buzz. That had gotten a laugh out of the storyteller as well as many others around them. Several people in the bar had gathered around to listen even though they'd already known. It was like the 'Richard' was a celebrity. They must have liked him to want to hear about him.

"Yer right about that!" Earl, the youngest of the elder generation, chimed in. He was loud, clearly inebriated. Drink in hand, waving it around as he spoke. "I spoke to 'im the day he come around here. He done told me he was from that port city Gotham! Goddam Gotham! Everyone livin' there is rich! Goddam Gotham! Takin' all our trade away. Takin' all our business. We ain't got much to offer but what we make better is better 'n what they can produce, I jus' know it! But he's a good boy, I think. He works like he's one of us; good manners on 'im too." Everyone that knew nodded their heads and grinned. They were even showing their teeth.

He'd just gotten back. This had been news to him.

'Boy' was what he'd called him. A 'boy' that was actually a man but because he was aged, he could call many men 'boy'. The first time he had almost spoken to him was the second evening he had been back in town. He was away. He'd had work outside the town. He walked tall and didn't smile as he made his way to the bar in the town square that held all the shops. The sun was going down. He could tell because it was getting colder, the sun couldn't have told him. The streets were almost bare, as it usually was this time of day. However, the people that were there would ignore his presence with little effort. He rarely spoke to anyone. Slade intentionally became a ghost to the townspeople. He rarely made eye contact. And this time he had but it hadn't been his fault; there was someone new in town. A person unrecognizable to him was sweeping out the shop that made and sold clocks. The blue-eyed youth smiled a bit when their eyes met. _He probably smiles at everyone._ Slade found that he was unwilling to look away. The well-dressed boy made like he was about to speak but the middle-aged shop keeper pulled him by his forearm inside before he could. The older man kept walking but made to surreptitiously listen to the man's hiss at the boy.

"That was the man I was tellin' you about, lad!" He heard the whisper.

"The 'bad news man'!? Oh, he's too handsome to..." and that was all he was able to hear before he was out of reach. Slade had cursed himself for slowing down if only a little. Since that day, the nice young man would look at him when he'd passed then look around to see if anyone was watching and would smile at him if no one was. This only was enough to get him out of the house during the day sometimes. Though he would never admit this to himself! And though a small part of the front of his mind would admit to liking his appearance; he had but a single grievance to bare against him.

The boy played his music early in the morning with his window wide open on a music machine that he'd bought from the owner of the shop that he'd worked at. It was loud enough to hear from the edge of the wood. Beyond there one could still feel it's vibrations. It was almost like a wake-up call to the village people. It was agreed that this was more so alright because "No decent and hardworking' folks would even be still sleep" by the time that the music was heard. Besides, he was the most interesting thing that had happened there in decades. He was from the city, of course he would bring that fun city nonsense here. Slade had been walking home from a late night a few weeks after he'd arrived back. He was tired, aching, the cold was not helping him; therefore, it was safe to say that he was on edge. He had gotten used to it after a few weeks. No one else had complained about the music so he thought not to say anything. Every day at dawn, the women at the brothel would sit on the porch of their building with their eyes closed, smiles on their faces listening to the sweet morning sounds. The boy had lived in the building adjacent to theirs.

"Damn, women," he'd muttered dragging his feet. They couldn't like the music all the time, could they? His walk was slow and his breathe came up staggered yet he managed to walk tall. He'd made up his mind to say something on that day. He'd thought to do it kindly even though there wasn't a kind bone in his body. Perhaps it was because he had found it difficult to speak to attractive people too roughly. Or maybe it was because he was so tired that morning. No one can really say. Either way, he'd made his way up the stairs of the rickety wood building that smelled like mildew and to the room that Slade had known was his. The jazz made it easy to find without asking for help. Not that he would ask for help. He stood there a moment in his heavy autumn coat. His muscles sang a dolce yet sad song to the rest of his huge body.

"Are you lost, sir?" The boy was next to him. He hadn't even heard him. Such intense body pain will dull one's senses, is what he said to give himself credit. Slade stood up straighter before turning to him, it made him bigger. He wasn't smiling this time. The man looked sad. Too sad for such a sweet morning but just right for such a melancholy little corner of the world. He was dressed in a fine bright blue big city robe that was tied securely along with worn out black slippers. He held a bowl of black coffee in his right hand while the other was on his hip. His hair was still pulled back, his thick eyebrows were furrowed. "You need help home or can you cross the street on your own?" That was said in a way that was intended to be rude. _Not an early riser then_. Slade's lips pursed as his eye narrowed.

"Turn you damn music down, boy. This look like the city to you?" He snarled feeling insulted. He wasn't elderly nor did he think he looked it! The youth shrugged his shoulders indifferently while walking around the man, his robe flowing at his heels, then opened his door to walk in.

"Well, you're the first person to complain about it," he replied closing the door. Slade growled quietly before he stuck his boot up against the door before it closed. The youth scrunched his nose looking at Slade with as much indifference as someone like him could. Which was a lot. "but I'll turn it down." The door was slammed and that was that. Slade went back to his house on the far side of the small village where he could still hear the jazz a bit but slept the rest of that day through. But the next day, when he went to see the boy out sweeping he had done his looking and smiling routine with him as if nothing happened. After a few days, the boy's music was as loud as it had been before. Slade said nothing.

The next time was in the dimly lit sweaty bar. He was having his usual drink in the corner they everyone knew belonged to him when he was home. All attempts to make nice with him had ceased long ago. He was one of those people that liked being alone. Everyone had respected that or was maybe a bit afraid. He was relieved that they now pretended he wasn't there. Sometimes, he liked to pretend he wasn't anywhere too. He didn't like to socialize but Wilson enjoyed the small-town talk. He'd listen to them. They're troubles, drunken rants, and small-town gossip. He liked knowing what was going on without the trouble of speaking. The bar was nearly empty tonight, not much was being said. Going home was not something he wanted to do. The house was too empty. The night quiet made it even emptier, he'd thought. And then he felt a small warm weight next to him. He knew who it was, didn't even look up from his drink.

"Awful night to be all on your lonesome, Mister." he'd said, imitating the townsfolk accent. That got Slade to look at him with a frown that he didn't really feel.

"Sit somewhere else, boy."

"I jus' fine here, old timer"

"That's not funny," Slade growled showing his teeth to get him away. It was funny but that didn't mean he could laugh right now. "You won't keep being friendly with these country bumpkins if they hear you making fools of them or see you being friendly with me."

"I'm just having fun." The youth simply said smiling down at his drink, his cheeks flush a bit.

"You must be drunk."

"I said I was here to have a good time." He smiled disingenuously up at him. He smiled at him like he wanted to have a good time in the way that the women in the brothel show people of good time. The way that adults have a good time.

"You'll have to have it with someone else, I'm done for the night." He pulled out his money clip along with a few bills.

"Wait, no, I'll cover this." The brunette said fumbling in his coat pocket. "What are you drinking? Whiskey? My father drinks that! He doesn't talk a lot just like you. But he isn't as good looking as you!" He put the money down on the counter, waving the bartender over, ordering another drink for the two of them.

"I hunt people for a living." Slade said lowly looking at him. The boy looked up at him. A part of him wanted to be left alone yet another was dreading the rejection. It was the best way to start any conversation with someone one that's to be involved with when a person chooses Slade's type of lifestyle. He furrowed his brows and shook his head as if he'd already known.

"I came here to have a good time, Mister Bad News." He replied putting a hand on Slade's knee suggestively. A small victory is what it was. Being wanted always feels nice; even when you know that you're attractive. He wanted to have a good time tonight too. He didn't want to be lonely tonight. He wouldn't even have to pay the way he had sometimes. The boy couldn't be any farther from hideous but sleeping with him hadn't been what he'd been thinking about since his short time knowing him. Well, it might have been but he hadn't noticed. He'd ruin this though. He had a gift for it. And it's only a night. He'd rather not feel good and then to miss it later. Best to not have it at all then. What he wanted to say and what he knew that he'd end up saying would be different. He knew before he'd spoken. So, he didn't say anything at all. He did however brush the boys in a harsh manor when he walked past him to leave.

He'd taken up a new hobby besides drinking or "people listening": "People watching." Actually, it was "person watching." It was a singular person. The new boy in the village was a topic of interest with him now. Ever since he'd rejected him in the bar. In the nights, Slade would drink and listen to the townsfolk praise his name or share anecdotes that involved him that day. It was every single day. Something was always new like-

"Richard told me about this one time he was fishin' on a great lake in the far east where he…"

Or

"Dickie's been teachin' me ta use a needle and…"

Or

"I done seen Rick getting' them workin' gals to do backflips and cartwheels…"

How much can everyone talk about one person? It was as if everyone was so desparate for entertainment that they had to document the life a one unfamiliar person. He was no different though; he would soak up every piece of information that he'd heard like a sea sponge. He loved it but he was also worried for himself. Had he begun to become so small that he'd dedicate so much of his time to a stranger, like the people of this community are doing? On the other hand, he couldn't bring himself to even care about that. Maybe it was because he was bored. More so than everyone else that was trapped here. He had no kids to take care of. No wife to come home to or to work with. He was just trying to pass the time. What he was doing was healthy.

In the mornings, he would wake up to the jazz music. It still bothered him, but it meant something now. It was his time to get up and watch from his window. You could see everything from his window on the second floor of his house. It was, after all, a very small place. Forty-five minutes after it started, the music would stop. Seventeen minutes after that, the new boy would leave his building to go to work that was a mere thirty feet from his lodgings. He'd always say goodbye to the girls next door that were on the porch. He would say "Hello!" to everyone he passed on his way; to the cobbler, the baker's son, the book store owner. Then he'd disappear into the clock store for the next five hours. During this time, Slade had a chair by the window ready with a book and a drink. He'd wait there. After that was his lunch break that he would either spend at the chapel, or with the pretty young bookworm that walked with a cane, or he spent this time laughing with the girls on the porch.

On one occasion, Slade had gone to the chapel on the end street of the lodging building when he saw the boy go in. The sun had just gone behind the clouds as he entered the place for himself. He'd stayed in the pew at the back of the church on the opposite side. This time the bookworm was with the boy. They were sitting in the pew together chatting.

"I didn't know you were the religious type, Dick." She said.

"You mean, just like I didn't know your 'paw' was the sheriff in the next little village over?"

"That's not funny, brat," She replied nudging him in the arm with hers.

"I _am_ funny. Truly, a world class jokester." After that he'd gone quiet for a spell before dropping to his knees in the pew before sighing. "I don't believe in this sort of thing though, Miss Gordon. I think it's a bit of a waste of time: praying and praising. Praying is a lot like wishing. Too many people spend too much time praying or wishing and waiting but not doing. And as for praising, I've decided I didn't want live my life for some big man that won't let me understand him anymore." I sighed again. "It's not like I'm praying to anyone when I'm here. I usually just need a silent place talk to my parents. Religion has too many damn rules anyway; everyone can't follow all of them. Someone's got to be lying about doing all of it right!" He laughed loudly. Which was probably okay because the Father was out in the bar for lunch and no one else was in there at the time.

"We are in a church! You ain't supposed to swear in here!" She hissed at that only made him laugh louder. Once he'd stopped it had gotten quiet again. A hallow quiet. That's when the Gordon girl finally spoke. "That last part you'd said, Dick. I'm no expert here, but I think that's what the forgiveness is 'posed to be for." And that was that. He stared into her eyes and she looked back. They stayed like that for what seemed like years. Years to finally see one another. Until he finally looked at her too. Then he was able turn back to his praying that was not praying.

In front of the chapel, was a stain glass window. It depicted a pale man with long blonde hair and silver wings that was looking down on the pews, his arms stretched out wide. The servant of "God" was surrounded by light blue glass. It was probably supposed to be the wide-open sky.

The boy was still kneeling before it all. His eyes were closed, his head bowed while his hands clasped together in prayer-like gesture. It was one of those days where the sun was out, shining more than usual. The light from outside had finally escaped from the clouds and hit the stained glass so fine. The fantastic bright colored glass shone down on the boy, illuminating his face, hair, and eyelashes. The dust speckles around him seemed to be floating. Just then a wind saw its way from the back of chapel. Slade knew then, that man in the glass man may have had the wings, but this boy before him at this very moment was a true angel.

The day of the autumn Holiday, all the shops and the bar closed; the brothel even locks up early that afternoon. It was a hardworking but still a family village after all. Slade had no family close by. If he had they wouldn't want to see him anyhow. His annual routine of staying home and drinking in his warm empty house was interrupted that day. He opened his window so that he could smoke his nicer cigars when he saw the city boy bundled up in the late darkness while scuttling down the empty street. Slade scratched the back of his head.

"I'm not hurting anyone," he said lighting his cigar, watching the youth. The forest was in that boy's path. The old man sighed loudly. _They probably told him, like they told him about me._ All places were more dangerous when the sun went down. Even children knew that. But then here the youth was, making his way to the edge of forest very quickly. Slade froze for a moment. He didn't like to get involved with the people here. The boy was a part of the people here now. Then again, he had been watching him for an unhealthy amount of time. Perhaps he was just going for a late-night walk or looking for some mischief.

But anything going near that forest this time of day could would most definitely be _found by_ mischief. Hurrying, Slade shoved his boots on and grabbed his heavy coat, shrugging it on as he left the house. He walked calmly in the cold dark evening towards the area where he'd seen the dark-haired youth scurry away. He was just reaching the town square after a few minutes of strolling. The air bit at his cheeks, his thick whickers protected him from the cold for the most part. The wind tonight was strong. It would only get stronger as well as chiller as the days approached winter. All the elements that made people hurt always got worse near the winter in this town; the air, the chilled rain, and the silence. It was almost silent on this night. The merriment of the people in the bars, from the houses, and the buildings were a short way behind him. The absence that he'd felt in the unlit square was reminiscent of the absence he'd felt for most of his life. The nothingness, the hole in the center of all things, the hole inside of him that sapped all the goodness that people had tried to share with him.

The growing darkness from his descent to the wood troubled him. Not in the way that he was worried for himself but for unsuspecting out-of-towners. His eyes adjusted to the dark of the night as he approached the large growth to look around its outer hedge layer. _Where could he have gone? Not into the forest?_ Slade stepped into the woodland area as quietly as he was able. He would only check the outer layer of the holy place. If the boy had gone in deeper than that then he was a fool that shouldn't be traveling on his own in the first place.

"Mmmm," To his left he heard a muffled moan of pain that wasn't quite in the eye but still too close to it for comfort. It had been _his_ voice, that was for certain. He must be in trouble. Had one of _them_ come from the forest to terrorize the child? Slade realized he left his knife at home. He would have to fight the beasts with his bare hands, he concluded silently shrugging his coat of while clandestinely still making his way over to the injured young man. "Ah, Wally!" That had gotten Slade to stop. A cold like no other seeped into his face and chest. He knows he did not come out here to find some young people sin in a place that wants nothing more than to kill anyone that comes to close to it. The boy _must_ be in peril. That thought and his "rational curiosity" kept him advancing, this time with more stealth. If he was injured by something then it would not hurt to be careful. And if it was the "sinnin'" that was happening than it might have been more reason to be cautious. If it was that then he would just leave, is what he'd told himself. That was a half-truth.

As he went in a bit deeper he saw the tangerine mop of hair lower on the ground about seven feet in front of him. He stopped to cover himself behind a tree. It was the West's boy. The owned the town's bakery. They had good bread, he never tried anything sweet that they had to offer though. Their boy was a quiet one for the most part. There was no one around the village that was close to his age. Either they were too young or too old to be friends with him. He heard that he'd been planning on going to a school in the city and was saving up his money for it. He was well into adulthood though and it seemed a bit late for him to be wanting to be anywhere else that what he'd always known. But that wasn't for Slade to say, really. He was on his knees, head buried between the boy's legs. The boy who he called 'boy' but was a man and now was seeing him doing what adults do. Anger was in the front of his mind but not enough anger to stop watching or stop them.

"It's Wallace," West told him sternly to which the boy giggled before getting on his knees so to be able to kiss him. A slow kiss. A sweet one. One you'd hum into. One you'd give to a lover. The boy wrapped his arms around his neck while West's were already at his waist. Fiddling with the fly in his pants. His fists balled up; he didn't want to watch this. Or perhaps he did. Perhaps he wanted to be a part of this. Wilson felt heat begin to surface in his face, teeth and groin in this place absent of warmth. Oh, how his teeth ached at this. It may have been that a small part of him had wanted to be where the West boy was.

His eye rose from their lower areas that were being exposed, back up to the boy's face. His face that was looking at his face through the darkness. All at once, the cold had returned to him. Those striking blue eyes staring at him. Glaring at him. West was at his neck now, huffing like a dog. The boy continued to glare at him. He thought to move but a small part of him was holding out hope that he hadn't really been seen. That he was just glaring in displeasure into the darkness because of West's sloppy work. The city boy pulls his lips up into a snarl. Displaying a look of unadulterated disgust before pulling the older of the two into another kiss, the brunette didn't break eye contact with him the entire time. Stilling glaring unblinkingly at him. Slade turned to leave.


	2. The Call in the Dusk

The heavens from the moth-eaten town were almost as bright as Gotham's dim city night lights. But they would never be as beautiful, nor as welcoming, at least to Dick. Those night lights that he could see through the heavy ever-present fog in the heaven-forsaken city that woke him from his slumber towards the windowsill. That pulled at him from his chest into them, feeling dissimilar to anything else, save love; love that he's had and will never allow himself to have again. From atop a building or a hill, one would not be able to tell that there in the city lay pandemonium and unsavory folks that ran the streets. Filled with shops, cramped quarters, street urchin, orphans, working citizens, litter, stray animals, a salt water sewage smell, and so much more that was both unwholesome and comfy. There was never a moment that the place wasn't occupied with a crowd, even in the patient night. When the port city was quieter, but not quiet, the wind would still while the air grew colder, the sky would be shrouded with clouds, the stars not visible to the naked eye, the city sounds, close but would become faint.

Then it would rise. Like the fog on a sunny day, it would rise. And then Dick could hear.

The call.

"It's even louder here," Dick said staring out the window. He was sitting up on his lumpy bed in the night, peering up at the sky through his window. It began to rise to the air again like smoke from a fire. Something in his chest rose with it. So much so that he thought he might fly away with it. It was familiar to him but nonetheless unnerving. Not so unnerving as what he sees in his dreams though.

The dreams. He'd go to different places when he slept; from black ice lakes to purple wheat fields to sandy colored ruins that's architecture resembled something entirely alien. They were usually in different places each time, never the same place twice, except for one place: The lake of black ice. It was in a world that was covered in tints and tones of navy blue and black. Around the lake was a forest filled with tall, thin, ash trees. In these dreams, he would be running through the forest; from what he was running, he had never known. He never bothered to look back to see what it was that was chasing him, all he had known was that he wanted to run. The thing behind him would make noise every now and again, whimpering then hissing as if in pain. Its footsteps were as loud as the crackling of thunder as it trampled twigs and leaves underfoot. It must have been large, he'd thought. The thing that troubled him the most, was that when he stopped to think on it when he was awake, he realized that the thing that was chasing him didn't seem threatening at all. In fact, it seemed more afraid then he was. Perhaps he ran so that he could run along with the beast, like they were companions or old friends and they were just lagging behind. Sometimes, he'd thought that maybe he should slow down to wait for it. But these thoughts usually only came to him when he was awake and thinking back on it and in the dreams the continued to run through the deep wood until finally arriving at the lake.

The dream always ended at the frozen lake. He would run and slip over on the ice. The lake was the color of fresh coals but the surface was hazed over with a scuffed, patchy white glaze. He would look down in the ice mass, searching for his reflection; for what reason, he never exactly knew. As the dream drew to a close, he would find a distorted reflection of himself in the ice before a crack split right down the middle of the image, making a sickening crunching sound akin to the sound of a bone being snapped. Conscienceness would return to him immediately afterwards.

He could never bring himself to think about what it had meant; mostly because he had no idea. It was as wondrous to Dick as the call had been. Dick heaves a labored sigh; his world had been filled with several wonderful things at one time. A time before he had found himself in this chilly hick town that was too small for its residents yet emptier than any alley he'd been in when in Gotham.

He thought back to his wonderful brothers who occupied his mind as well as the lonely nights. He thought of his sweet sister, the stories of old that he recited for her, accompanied with the new ones that they'd made up together. He thought of the young boy who was That Man's son but might have been his in every which way but when it came to blood. And he thought of That Man, who had saved him, who filled the void in his heart after the Great Tragedy, who was his best friend, who hurt him more than anyone else ever had. He thought about how he missed Him so- how he missed them all so. Misery had always accompanied thoughts of his family. The pain gripped him so tight in the stomach that he'd thought he would vomit.

The ache that followed his departure from Gotham was far greater than when he had left for Blüdhaven a few years back. His fight with That Man had driven him to Gotham's equally sinister sister city. There, he had found out a few things about himself that he didn't know before; and then he found his way back to Him, as per usual not too long after that. Dick always went back to Him in the end, they would argue and lash and peel away at one another but came together in the end. The two were a constant; like the push and pull of the tide, like the rising of the sun, like the sear that follows fire, like the call in the dusk.

The days passed by slowly in the shop. He performs menial jobs for most of the day for his elderly employer. Wipe down the counter, dust off the clocks, carry 'this' to the back, run down to the market for more window cleaner, clean off the windows, man the register, sweep up and so on, just like that. If he was fortunate, the old man who ran the shop would show him a thing or two about the inner workings of a watch and how to repair one. But days when that occurred were few and far. While, he passionately yet clandestinely loathed his new routine, the only good thing that came of it was the day he saw the big white-haired man. Wilson, is what his name was, if he recalled correctly. Which he could, because he had made it a point with himself, that he would know the man's name.

Richard would never forget the first time that he saw Wilson.

It was an evening, much like the days that had come before; chilly and foggy. He had been sweeping out the shop for the day's end when he was passing by. The tall, heavy built man looked a menace. A lightless steely eye fixed on him and the other covered by a black patch. He was wearing a grey thick coat to shield him from the cold and big brown mud stained boots. His shoulder length hair was white but it was fluffy too. And he hadn't looked particularly old. Aged, but like a fine wine. Wilson had held his gaze; those few moments felt like a lifetime. His eyes in Wilson's like one hand sits in the other: at home and finally at rest. And then he was pulled back by the shop keeper.

"That was the man I was tellin' you about, lad!" The old man hissed at him quietly. He looked worried as his eyes shifted from him to the other man. A notch in his head clicked. The people of this small town had loved to gossip and they spoke to him in warning of a man that no one in the town particularly liked. They said he did terrible things for money. A mercenary. A killer for hire. A man with no morals. They said he would be away a lot but when he came to town he had barely left his house. Even so, when he had, they would steer clear of him. They hadn't wanted that sort to mix with them and they made it clear that Dick shouldn't either, but said so in that polite small-town way.

"The 'bad news man'!? Oh, he's too handsome and old to be any sort of trouble!" He chuckled. His employer blanched.

"Don't go sayin' stuff like that, lad! People might get the wrong idea..." he said a bit sure of Dick who was paying him no mind and staring at Wilson's back.

"Yeah, right. Sorry, grandpa." Dick quietly replied not taking his eyes off the mercenary.

At first, he had played the music because he had missed the din of the city. It was so quiet up in these hills. The air in the morning was almost as barren as the land. There weren't even songs from the morning birds to smother the silence. The smooth jazz had both relaxed as well as made him giddy. It made for good sound for getting up. The records that he had accumulated over the years had been either heirlooms, gifts, or something special that he had bought for himself. He had been able to stuff quite a few in his small bag that he had brought, however, not all of them of course. The rest were left in his old room in the manor along with the record player that He bought for him. He left so many things that he loved behind.

Now, he had played the music loud in hopes of annoying that man again. He had been so excited when Wilson had come to his lodgings to see him that morning. Though, he had pretended to be indifferent, there was a microscopic part of him that had felt absolutely wicked about the entire confrontation. Since then, he had played his music just a tiny bit louder. All in hopes of rousing the man to come to him again. Though, that was not the case. He had gotten himself an admirer since then however. For quite some time, he noticed that Wilson would watch him. Ever since Wilson had spurned his advances in the tavern, he would watch him. Sometimes he would even follow him. Dick smiled to himself and sank into the pillows on his bad at the thought of the time in the chapel. He had been with Miss Gordon then.

"I'm going to the Sky Man's house Miss Gordon, you wanna join me today?" He asked leaning on the front desk where she sat. Her thick red hair all done up in a tight high ponytail made her look scary. At first, he had been hesitant to speak to her but found that she was quite approachable when he had. When he had first arrived he was always in and out of the book shop; buying books on basic survival; cookbooks, How to Make Candles books, Taxes for Beginners books, How to Fix Kitchen Appliances books, Birdwatching for Starters books and so on. For the most part, Dick had steered clear of the fantasy and adventure novels section. They had reminded him too much of Jason and sometimes Cass. He didn't want to be reminded of his old home anytime soon, or perhaps forever; he hadn't decided. He recalled living on his own in the Blüdhaven but that different; that was a city, now he's in the middle of literally nowhere country. He actually had no idea where he was. Dick, had been in a hurry to flee and he didn't have the luxury to stop to ask anyone for directions. Everything had been so quick when he had gone to leave. Thinking back, it was difficult for Dick to piece together any coherent memories of those days, or perhaps it was a single day. The clearest image he had was of the old black train that he boarded at some point during his fleeing of Gotham. The large gaudy locomotive took him to an abandoned station that didn't seem at all familiar to him. There, he was the only person to get off and no one boarded from there.

The land around the station had been surrounded by barren soil and dead grass. The sky had been grey; no sun but intense fog was everywhere, he could barely see past twenty feet in front of him. And the station wasn't very much of a station at all. In its entirety, it was a fairly small block of cracked yellowed concrete sitting atop the deadened land. No signs of stairs or signals for directions to close by towns, it was extremely eerie to him. His thoughts on his decision making at the time are still hazy and foreign to him, so Dick cannot readily recall why he had decided to walk in the direction that he had. It was like he was in a trance at the time or like he was floating: in this haze, he had felt as light as air in a way that he felt like he couldn't control his body. The next thing that Richard recalls is the black wood. Without knowing how or when he had got there; its trees extended all the way out to the sky with long needle branches, wet leaves cloaked the ground, its hollow quiet, no wind. He remembers not a single animal that was present there or hearing any birds, cicadas, or crickets. This had worried him, so much so that he had wanted to find his way out as quickly as possible. Nature, had usually fascinated him considering that he lived in the city for most of his life. He enjoyed it whenever he could be outside surrounded by vegetation, but, he thought that this was due to not being around it often. But in these woods, it was different from any excursion he had taken with his family or on his own. Maybe it was quiet because all of the animals and such were hiding from something, he had thought then. He wandered the wood for what seemed like hours, it may have actually _been_ hours, his legs were weak from walking and his feet were beginning to blister. At which point he had been immensely thankful that he hadn't decided to bring too much luggage.

The events that had occurred next is the part where his memories are the fuzziest of all: the part in the clearing. In his stupor he had thought he'd seen a light in the woods that was about three hundred feet ahead of him.

"A way out," he remembered mumbling to the wind. Perhaps he was close to a stream or perhaps he would stumble upon a town or a marketplace or there could be a cabin and he could ask for directions or shelter. Anything divergent from the endless drained forest was better. His feet had dragged him towards the light that was as bright as day. He couldn't make out what was in the light but it hadn't mattered. Even if there was nothing there, he would be able to see the sun and maybe even able to tell what the time was; he needed to know that as much as he had needed food and water and some time to rest. The sunlit spot would be sure to provide him with a warmth, no matter how small the amount. He was used to the Gotham chill, however, he had not brought much proper attire for the colder it is farther up north.

His labored walk morphed into a stuttering run; thinking of the cold was only making him colder out in the open like this. And suddenly, he was there, just that quickly. When retelling or recalling this, he chalks it up to his emotionally distressed state then, or perhaps his exhaustion, but his memory was usually very good. It was so peculiar to have so many gaps for him. In the place where light was promised there was instead a clearing but was absent of the light he was when he viewed it from a far. It was just a wide-open space filled with brown-grey grass, the ground wasn't covered in leaves the way the rest of the forest had been and no trees were present. He had looked up to the sky, but it was just as grey as where it had been in the rest of the forest.

"What the hell," he mouthed to himself. Maybe the sun went back into the clouds when he had gotten there. He must have just missed it, is what he had wanted to think, but looking up, it appeared as if the sun hadn't been out all day. Maybe there wasn't a light to start with and he was just imagining it. That could have been it, he _was_ tired, famished, and freezing. Dick brought his gaze back down to the ground and kneeled on one leg to examine the grass. It had still been a bit wet as he ran his fingers through the cool surface. "It feels like forever since I've seen grass." And it had been a long while, not since he had been with his mother and father. As he continued to mindlessly run his fingers over the deadened earth, a bundle of twigs snapped in the brush behind him. The snapping from behind was accompanied by a scraping noise. It had sounded like someone or something with longer sharp nails was clawing at the leaves and twigs below. Dick's head shot up at that, he rose quickly from his place in the glass grabbing his belongings and bundled them into his chest messily all the while. He then began to walk quickly in the direction opposite of the ruckus. He didn't need to see what was behind him; he may not have known much of the outdoor survival gig but he knew how he shouldn't provoke anything that might be feral in the wild. Even someone with half a brain knew that.

Dick shuffled his legs as fast as he could to the other side of the clearing which lead back into the thick drab timber. He slowed down his pace once he was out of the sterile expanse, believing that he had only needed to put distance between himself and the loud hubbub and the animal may possibly suppose him not to be a threat and leave him be. For the second time that day, Dick was incorrect, from behind a brisk step pursued him huffing like spent heavy beast. Its stride gave the impression that it was a very large thing. And without looking back, once more, he broke off into a fast paced walk not wanting to provoke whatever beast was trailing him. His grip on his bag and shoebox got tighter; he knew that if he ran the risk of getting attacked was much greater. Saliva in his mouth began to bottle up in worry and his tongue felt as though it had gotten heavier, _What if it is a bear_ , he thought to himself. He'd heard that if one should lay on the ground and pretend to be dead when coming in contact with a grizzly, however it seemed as if that moment for that had passed considering it had already saw him very much alive.

"Just keep moving," he whispered to himself in a shaky voice while picking up the speed. The creature trailing along appeared not to be getting farther away but closer. Dick pressed his lips together tightly as if to keep himself from making too much noise. He strained his legs to take longer strides along the ground littered with roots, slippery leaves, large stones, and other such obstacles landing on the balls of his feet; he was just short of a run at the rate he was going. The animal's huffing gradually turned to bubbled growls, coming out in time with his strides. "Damn the north, I should have scurried down south!" Not a moment after he cursed himself under his breath that he felt a damp steamy breath at the base of his neck. He came to a stop at that. The thing was right behind him. _How did I not even hear it?_ He yelled in his head. The beast continued to gasp densely at his neck before Dick heard it sniffle, taking in his scent. "What the fuck?" He whispered as quietly as he could, his voice coming out shaky; in fact, his entire body was shaking, he noticed. Whatever creature was behind him went quiet at the sound of his voice which compelled Dick to stand a bit stiffer, though he could not stop his trembling, much as he tried. All was silent in those few moments. The small amount of air that may have been present in his body before, was no longer there. He sensed something then in his chest, or maybe his heart: it was fear. Not fear of the creature behind him, he was afraid of something else.

 _Ah, I know now._ He thought solemnly. _The_ _ **Thing**_ _that got me here in the first place._ And that was far more frightening than the animal that lay before him. He then made up his mind to see it. The tremor that had consumed him only moments previously had ceased all together. If he didn't have to be afraid of _Thing_ that had put him in this troublesome predicament, then he wasn't going to be afraid of a bear or feral animal that was trying to intimidate him now. With the confidence of a thousand simpletons, Dick dropped his things to the without a care to their condition. It made a sound of alarm at his spontaneous movement in the midst of his previous hush. He thought that the best way to get rid of it was to show that he was undaunted be it or try to at least display some sort of dominance. In one swift movement, he used his fool's confidence to turn around to meet it. By that time though, all Dick could see was the silhouette of a large animal whisk behind a large bulk of trees.

"And then? How did you find your way in this town?" Barbara asked looking up at him as if he had grown another eye. They were on the path to the church house; it was almost a nice day. He was feeling blue, well, bluer than he usually did almost every day and wanted a nice quiet place to talk to his parents. He spoke to them all the time, though it was ordinarily in his mind but there were times he felt he should done something slightly more special, to honor their memory. "And what was it that you felt?"

"After that, I lost all of that machismo, grabbed my things, and ran until I got tired." He said a bit embarrassed. "I walked around some more and sometimes they were in circles. Eventually I ended up in the end of the forest. By that time, it was sundown. And as for how I felt, I guess that's a bit personal, ya know!" He laughed not looking at her. Barbara was quiet for a few moments. It was an uncomfortable quiet considering that the town was so full of life due to the nicer weather.

"And those bruises? The ones you had comin' here: where'd those come from?" she wondered, unsure. Dick still wasn't looking at her, just staring ahead, smiling as per usual. Apart of him knew she wasn't expecting an answer today; she was just putting it on the table for later discussion. Probably hoping that he would open up about it one day. He wasn't. That was all behind him now: his family, his old friends, his jobs, his love, and his especially his pain. He was quiet, smiling, and looking down at their shuffling feet and she sighed. "Ya know, Dick? I think it's strange how you smile even when you don't feel like it; strange and so sad." And that was that. He hummed at that but would not look at her despite feeling her intense gaze that was glued to him. He opted to look to his left where the markets lay to avoid having to meet it. Doing this, he caught a glimpse of a head of silvery white hair far behind the two of them. On a normal day, he may not have noticed it, but the way the light hit it may it shine like the sun shines when it reflects from a mirror. Wilson, the one who spurned his affections not too long ago. Dick had been embarrassed about that still, though he didn't like to admit it or even think about it. _Why am I so eager to make a fool of myself?_ He thought as his face heated up. He didn't mean to come on to him like that, or maybe he did, but he was inebriated and not thinking the way he should have.

"So," He dragged out turning his attentions back to Barbara. He tried to speak as quietly as he could without seeming like he was attempting to hide what he had to say. They were nearing the steps of the church now. "What's up with that Wilson guy?"

He was leaning on the window pane now, staring into the eye of the forest. The call had woken him up and would not let him sleep. In Gotham, sometimes he was to ignore it and return to sleep, but out here it was different. So loud, it sounded like it was in his room with him. The feeling that arose in his chest was crippling, he could hardly breathe now. It felt like drowning. Watching the snow fall like rain from the sky was slightly calming in all of the noise for him though. It wasn't the first of the year, it had begun about a month prior. The first left a solid three and three quarters feet of snow on the ground. The was far more than he was used to so early in the year. He had to buy a new coat, Dick had forgotten his in the rush. If he had known he would end up here, he would have _only_ brought winter clothes and suffered if there did come a warm season. As relaxing as the snow was, it would not have been enough to lull him into slumber. And the noise was not the only reason that he was unable to sleep.

It was a special time of the month for him. It usually varied, but in the few months that he was here, he had been counting and it was all a bit cyclical. About every thirty or so days, Wilson would disappear and then reappear two days later. He would go away for what everyone seemed to know was his work, people would see him leave the town. But then he would just up and not show his face for a small window of time. During those days he would not come by the shop and when Dick saw him a few days later, he would look as though he was in pain. This day had been one of the ones where he would return, and Dick was excited.

His time in the decrepit village where dull, aside from the times where he would spend his time with the people there such as Barbara, the working gals, sometimes the village children, and his nightly trysts with Wally that did not interest him in the way that seemed like an adventure. Looking at Wilson was different. He had that look in his eye; the way that Dick felt but could not say or show. The feeling of listlessness, anguish, and absence was all in that one eye. Dick could tell, that in this place that was giving up to the ghost, he did not belong there and neither did Wilson. Yet there they were, caught in the mud of the decaying village and had thought that he might have known what it was like being in his skin and vice versa. Maybe there was a whole that he might had filled the way talking with Ms. Gordon, playing with the children, laughing with the prostitutes, and the sex with Wally could not. He had thought that maybe he might had been able to take him away from there. That there was maybe misery or a happiness or a love (and oh, to the odes he'd written in his mind of the love he had and his love of _all_ , thus his love of _nothing_ ) in Wilson that might had been able to swallow him the way he knew that this village would swallow him or his troubles in Gotham would swallow him but if it was with Wilson then it would have been his choice. And maybe he was just looking for some more strife in the way that he would almost always think of him in the small hours to himself. And the way he would watch Wilson who was watching him. And the way he would try to watch Wilson in the same way only to find that there wasn't much to watch and even less to know about him from the townsfolk. He continued to stare out the window blinking constantly from his exhaustion.

"I know I complain about the quiet in here so much," He said softly, to no one in particular. "But I feel like my head'll split open from this buzz." As he said this he saw a figure emerge from the forest. Dick gasped and arose quickly in interest. _Someone came out of the forest? But I was told that it was dangerous._ The people of the town hadn't failed to tell him how fantastic it was that he entered the woodlands and left without being harmed or even disappearing. They said that no one ever approached those trees, and no one came out of them. Yet here he sat, observing through the haze of snow as a bulky person stumbled their way through the snow. Their movements were stiff and slow. It looked as if they were in pain; either that or they were having a peculiarly difficult time walking in the snow. Dick inched closer to the window pressing his face as close to the obscured glass as could without making contact. As he squinted he was able to make out a large dark winter coat and some white near their face. His stomach somersaulted; it was Wilson! Coming back earlier than expected, or maybe right on time; Dick had never actually seen him return with his own eyes. His joy was momentary, his breath hitched as saw the older man collapse face down in the snow. Dick stared. Wilson did not move. He waited for him to rise from the ground. A minute passed. Another minute. And then one more and still, his body was lifeless. Just then did Richard hopped to the edge of his bed, pulling on his boots and his robe that were sprawled on his floor. He ran to the door flinging it open and tugging his scarf along with him that caused his coat hanger to fall with a loud clatter, rushing down the stairs of his lodgings all the way out of the entrance. The cold air set his face on fire, like needles pierces his skin, his eyes felt dry as the stale breeze blew. He covered his face with his left arm and began to trudge through the blizzard as quickly as he could. As he walked snow sank into his boots, as they were not properly laced up. His nice blew robe put up a pitiful fight against the chill. The fact that he wasn't wearing anything but a long shirt and briefs underneath did not aid him.

"Damn, I should have brought my coat!" He cursed himself aloud, not stopping for a moment. "Too late to go back now, I guess!" During the day, the strong winds were periodic, they would blow as hard enough to topple a stone tower and then the next be as still as the waters. But when night fell, the old north wind blew at full speed without any delay. Dick may have been knocked over by the harsh gale had it not been for the fact that his feet were firmly planted in the snow. He looked up and could see Wilson only a few feet away. If there hadn't been any snow on the ground, it would have taken him approximately fifty seconds to reach him, but that was not the case on that day. As Dick approached Wilson's body he could see the snow that was beginning to pile up on the back of his coat; he frown deepened. He reached down and grabbed on tight to his coat and pulled as hard as he could. "Ah!" He dropped Wilson and held his back in pain. "Goddammit!" Letting out a few hisses in pain, he lowered his knees into a bend and grabbed the beast of a man under his arms then lifted with his legs this time. He was able to raise him high enough to throw an arm around his shoulders then started dragging him along towards the house that he knew to be Wilson's on the edge of town. Wilson groaned, he was sporting a few fresh cuts on his face as well as dark circles under his eyes. Sniffing the air around him in his momentary state of consciousness.

"Boy," Wilson whispered so softly that Dick could not hear it over the wind. He was starting to lose feeling in his exposed legs and feet though, it didn't seem to bother him as much as it should have.

The path to the injured man's home was an arduous one, but Dick had made it slowly. _Please be unlocked._ He prayed, and they were answered. The doorknob turned shakily for him but he swung the door open with all of his might stepping inside and using his right foot to slam it shut, sweeping in a healthy amount of snow with them. Panting heavily, Dick's eyes scanned the room for a fireplace. He spotted one to his left and continued to lug the man along with him before collapsing in front of it. The younger man wriggled to get from under the heavy weight of his companion and flipped Wilson onto his back. He threw some hunks of wood into the fireplace that he found next to it before getting up to look for matches. He stepped over Wilson and felt around the room. Without the simple light outside to aid him, it was difficult to do much. The foreigner groped around the room to find a sofa with relatively thick blanket on it that he slung over his shoulder and with a stroke of luck, a pack of matches. Making his way back over to the fireplace, he stumbled over what felt like a bottle of whiskey. Striking one he was able to see much better, though his eyes _had_ adjusted to the darkness, it couldn't hurt to shed some light on the situation.* Hopping back over him, Dick threw the match onto the wood, effectively setting it ablaze and then he went to work on getting the hurt man out of his wet clothes. Starting with his coat that had a finicky zipper, then his under shirts, boots, socks, and then the pants, hanging them on the ridge above the fireplace. Everything was soaked. The man let out another groan, but much louder this time and more irritable.

"Hush," Dick soothed brushing his hair back softly, Wilson hummed in a calm manor which led him to stop immediately after. _That was a strange thing to do!_ He chided. He sighed as he lay the black and orange blanket with intricate triangle and square patterns on top of him. Richard stripped down to his under clothes as well, as they were wet too before joining Wilson under the large blanket; getting close enough to feel body heat, but not touching, he didn't want to seem like there to be any misunderstandings in case the other man woke up. The yellowed light from the fire shone onto the older's face. Dick could see the gashes more clearly on his face; it looked like he got attacked by something with sharp claws, a wolf or feral dog maybe. He reached his hand out to gently touch; they felt like they would hurt. He thought back to when he had bruises on _his_ face. He thought of how he had got them. And how they had led him here. _Ah, yes. My love._ His love had brought him here, to this awful place, to his cold apartment without any of his comforts or most of his treasured things, and now to the side of this man. He had thought after his troubles in Gotham that he wouldn't ever love again, perhaps he was being a tad dramatic when he thought that, though. "His love of everything, and thus, his love of nothing." Since he left his old home, his new demeanor had put him in more pain than he had been in for a long while. So, perhaps this is what he had needed. Someone to care about just as deeply, someone to have in his thoughts so frequently, someone to preoccupy his time, someone to love. His newer indifference towards almost all things now, had strained at his heart.

"Maybe I can love everything," he said to the air before smiling too wide to then conclude: "Maybe I can love him."


End file.
